


For the Record

by holograms



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Basically, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Hand Jobs, famous!Andrew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:37:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3886114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all started in Chicago, during their second stop. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and it doesn’t seem to be stopping any time soon — or later for that matter.</p><p>[in which Andrew is famous, and during an interview with him and Fletcher, he gets bored and creative]</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Record

**Author's Note:**

> Based off [a post](http://greyjoyss.tumblr.com/post/117535592618/whiptrash) by greyjoyss. Ever since I read it wouldn't let me go, so yeah, here I am. When will this madness end.

Of all the things that have come with fame, Andrew hates interviews most. He hates the overwrought attention, he hates the repetitiveness. He can imagine how this one will be (it’s easy, because it’s the same as every other): _I met with Andrew Neiman in Miami during a stop on his nationwide tour. Andrew may be the jazz world’s newest hotshot, but as he told me he’s just like every other twenty-year-old, as he flashed a brilliant dazzling smile (watch out ladies!). Beside him sits his mentor, Terence Fletcher. Fletcher is a striking presence, dressed in a black shirt and black pants, a monochromatic exclamation mark_...and so on, made complete with a casual photo of the two of them, smiling and pretending to have a good time.

Andrew realizes it isn’t Charlene (Charlotte? Andrew’s already forgotten her name) of _Downbeat_ magazine’s fault, but he can’t help but feel annoyed as she sits across from him and Fletcher, all smiles, her hands folded in front of her next to her tablet that’s recording their entire conversation. She doesn’t realize that she’s an intrusion into his personal space, and that her mission of prying personal information out from him disgusts him.

However, who Andrew _does_ lay blame with is Fletcher, who rudely woke him from his midday nap on his day off and dragged him down into the hotel lobby for this interview, threatening him the entire way that he should _behave_ if he knew what was good for him.

Good behavior is a loose term, with them. For what it constitutes as fluctuates.

Andrew sighs. Four minutes into the interview and he is already bored as hell. He contemplates feigning ill just so he wouldn’t have to answer any more stupid questions, but knowing Fletcher he would call his bluff and embarrass him. So Andrew abides by Fletcher’s _good behavior_ and gathers the forbearance to tolerate this interrogation. However, to demonstrate he’s not pleased about the situation he purposely knocks his elbow into Fletcher’s as he shifts in his seat. Seeing Fletcher trying to contain his pissed-off look in front of company is worth it.

Andrew tenses as the interviewer asks another question, “How did you get into drumming?”

Before Andrew can respond, Fletcher swiftly kicks him in the ankle. Andrew exhales through his gritted smiling teeth, thinking _I didn’t even fucking say anything yet_ — but really, Fletcher knows him well enough to know that a smartass answer had been readied. Andrew swears Fletcher sits so close just so he could corral him by kicking at his shins.

“When I was six I asked my dad for either a stegosaurs or a drum kit,” Andrew says sardonically, “As per our lease we could not have dinosaurs in our apartment, so he bought me my first drums instead.”

She laughs, and it’s obvious she is too distracted to have noticed his tone. She continues on and to Andrew’s dismay, it’s the same parade of questions he’s always thrown. _How’s life?_ (Awesome.) _Did you ever think you’d be this successful?_ (Honestly, yeah.) _How did you meet Fletcher?_ (In hell.) _What’s your favorite song?_ (Anything but “Caravan.”)

Andrew fades from the conversation and glances to Fletcher next to him, who is currently explaining about his experiences, flaunting about his part in this victory tour. His grin is wide and his blue eyes dazzle, and he knows exactly what to say to make himself into the charming mentor of Andrew Neiman, and not the shark that he is. The fuckin’ asshole.

He’s sick of hearing Fletcher speak — tired of his self-congratulatory bullshit, tired of hearing him act as if he’s the reason why Andrew is here, the reason for Andrew’s success (Andrew _is_ here for a reason, but Fletcher isn’t it).

At times Fletcher needs to be reminded of his behavior, too, and Andrew is so mind-numbingly bored he’d do just about anything to make this interview interesting.

As Fletcher is explaining how he plucked Andrew out of Nassau Band (“this kid squeaked by with a double-time swing”), Andrew drags his hands from the table and into his lap, then while looking straight ahead at the interviewer (Clarie?), places his right hand on Fletcher’s thigh, just above the knee.

 _Lets see what he does with that_ , Andrew thinks, nodding along to the question of, “Is that how it happened?” although he has no idea what he is agreeing to.

Fletcher hardly gives any indication of being touched, there’s only a slight flexing of muscle that Andrew feels against his palm. Encouraged to do more and knowing that his actions are masked by the table and are unseen, Andrew slides his hand to Fletcher’s inner thigh, giving a slight squeeze. After a few moments Andrew grows impatient, and he snakes his hand up towards his crotch, dragging his fingers in lines up Fletcher’s leg until he reaches Fletcher’s cock and unceremoniously grabs him through his slacks.

 _That_ earns a reaction from Fletcher — midsentence he jumps with a slight startle and forces his legs together at the knees. Andrew keeps his hand on him, and when Fletcher glances at him with his best murderous icy glare, he just grins back.

“...but sometimes, Andrew falls out of tempo, and I’m there to remind him to step _back in line,_ ” Fletcher says, presumably finishing what he had been saying before Andrew had distracted him. By the way he says it, Andrew knows it’s a warning, however Andrew scoffs — he feels perfectly devious. Risky enough and bored enough and horny enough to follow through.

He starts moving along Fletcher’s length, palming him through the fabric of his slacks. When Andrew feels him start to stiffen in his hand, he smirks — because even though Fletcher thinks so, he is not in control of everything. It drives Andrew to work harder, wrapping his hand tighter around him and squeezing in long strokes, using precise movements to bring him to full hardness.

Then — Fletcher lets out a shaky breath, and parts his thighs. Andrew wishes they were alone and that he could lean over and kiss him on the jaw.

Because this is what it’s like for them, now: they fuck in unmade beds in five-star hotels across the country, Andrew sleeps in during mornings while Fletcher orders them room service, Fletcher bitches at how Andrew lives out his suitcase (and of course, Fletcher meticulously unpacks and hangs all his clothes at every stop). Andrew sucks Fletcher’s dick behind the privacy of locked doors before shows, and after Andrew goes in front of a sold-out crowd and drums his heart out, Fletcher reciprocates if he decides that Andrew had performed well enough — although Andrew figures that he always performs up to par, because Fletcher almost always returns the favor. Most times Andrew’s hard and ready by the time he comes off stage, and he’s still sweating and breathing heavily from his performance when Fletcher drags him to an empty room and shoves him against the wall, pulling out Andrew’s cock and taking him quickly and earnestly in his mouth in such a way that leaves Andrew whimpering and clutching at Fletcher’s shoulders for support. They’re around each other every second of the day, which leads them to driving each other crazy — they fight daily and never ever apologize, but they fuck as a way to make up for it.

It all started in Chicago, during their second stop. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and it doesn’t seem to be stopping any time soon — or later for that matter.

Andrew takes a furtive glance to the interviewer (Clara?) and he’s glad she’s too busy typing notes on her tablet to notice how his arm has been under the table for quite a while in a weird angle, and how he shifts in his seat because his wrist is starting to cramp from doing it in that way. She also misses the mischievous look that Andrew slyly gives Fletcher, and how Fletcher mouths back, “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

That’s what he says, but Andrew feels his cock twitch under his hand and he’s familiar enough with Fletcher to know that the flush creeping across his face is from arousal, and not anger. Wanting to up the ante, Andrew bites his lip, and then dips his hand down and cups Fletcher’s balls and lightly squeezes.

Fletcher lets out a strangled yelp, slamming his elbow on the table and jolting in his seat.

“Everything okay?” the interviewer asks, looking up at the noise curiously.

Andrew smiles serenely. “Just peachy.” He looks to Fletcher for him to agree, but he only clears his throat and waves them on in a motion to continue.

Seeing Fletcher coming undone by his touch makes Andrew breathe heavily, and he realizes how hard his own dick is, pressing against his jeans — he decides that he _needs_ skin to skin contact, so he goes for Fletcher’s belt. He’s almost got it out of the loop before Fletcher grabs his wrist tightly, stopping him before he can go any further. He struggles against Fletcher’s hold for a moment, giving an unthinking answer to a question —

“What do you want to gain from this tour?”

“To become better.”

— before Fletcher bristles slightly, and guides his hand back down to touching him through the fabric of his pants. Determined, Andrew grinds the heel of his hand against Fletcher’s cock, in drawn out rubs on his entire length, repeating the motions and touching him in ways that he knows that he likes.

The interviewer (Kylie?) starts to speak, but Fletcher holds a hand up and says, “A moment please,” then leans over to whisper in Andrew’s ear.

“I know you’d like to suck me off right here,” Fletcher mutters so only he can hear, “in front of her and everyone else.” Andrew’s breath catches in his throat, and looks over to the interviewer, who at the moment is arching an eyebrow at the two of them.

“You want that don’t you, your lips around my cock?” Fletcher continues, and Andrew licks his lips as feels his mouth watering at the mention. The tightness in his pants is becoming unbearable, so he palms himself to relieve some of the tension. He feels the exhale of Fletcher’s amused laugh blow against his hair. “Forget drumming,” Fletcher says, “you could be my slut.”

Fletcher eases back into his chair, and gives indication to the interviewer to continue, shooting Andrew a sidelong grin. For a moment, Andrew considers what would happen if the interviewer (Kim?) were to see what he is doing — he would nonchalantly add, “Yeah, we do this all the time. Put _that_ in your article, now that would sell copies,” and then would bring Fletcher off so loudly that everyone in the hotel lobby would turn their heads to look at them.

Spurred by the fantasy, he wraps his hand firmly around Fletcher through his slacks and starts jacking him hard, alternating between those motions and brushing his thumb over the head. Andrew knows that Fletcher is getting close by the way he’s taking in deeper breaths and how feels pre-come wetting through his pants, all while trying to uphold composure while talking to the interviewer. When Andrew looks over to him, it obvious that he’s struggling.

Andrew continues on, fondling and rubbing him through his clothes, and then he hears the interviewer ask, “Andrew, what’s something that you’d change about Fletcher?”

Andrew laughs, because that’s such a loaded question — he slows his hand and gives Fletcher a quick look. Fletcher returns his gaze with one of his most threatening glares and unobserved by the interview, he presses his hips up into Andrew’s hand.

“I think,” Andrew begins, “that I’d like him to learn some patience,” he says, removing his hand from Fletcher, and folds both hands in front of him.

He can palpably feel Fletcher’s frustration next to him when he doesn’t return his touch.

Fletcher ends the interview soon after. He steers Andrew into the elevator by his elbow, away from a confused interviewer (Cora?), and Andrew wonders how obvious it is that the both of them are sporting erections.

“You think you’re clever?” Fletcher harshly asks.

Andrew looks over to him and answers, “Actually, yeah, I do.”

Fletcher pays him back for his insolence when they’re in the privacy of their hotel room. Fletcher’s torturing him, biting and kissing at his neck and working him open with his fingers, pressing at the spot that makes Andrew whine and squirm — Fletcher waits until he’s absolutely begging for it to shove in with a practiced motion. As revenge for not finishing the job downstairs, he doesn’t touch Andrew’s dick, leaving it leaking pre-come on Andrew’s stomach. Andrew would reach down and touch himself but he’s too preoccupied with clutching at Fletcher’s hips, coaxing him to go faster and harder.

It doesn’t take long for Fletcher to come, and when he pulls out of Andrew he drags a messy trail along Andrew’s thigh. Andrew’s still achingly hard and he writhes in the sheets, and as Fletcher looks on and he says, “Please Fletcher please, _fuck_ , I hate you.”

Fletcher finishes him by sucking him off — Andrew almost completely loses it when he takes him in his mouth. Andrew looks down, seeing Fletcher lying next to his legs with one hand wrapped around his base and head moving up and down his shaft, and the sight makes Andrew throw his head back into over-starched pillows and thrust up into his mouth. When he comes, he’s moaning loud enough that the people in the room one over can hear (seeing them later could be awkward, but it wouldn’t be the first time unsuspecting vacationers are shocked to see that _they_ were the ones having such loud and enthusiastic sex).

Fletcher pulls off, swallowing, and jerks Andrew through the aftershocks of his orgasm. When Andrew’s breathing has slowed and is making small complacent sounds, Fletcher reaches up and ruffles Andrew’s hair as he sits up on the side of the bed.

Andrew looks over — Fletcher’s still got his pants around his ankles, and Andrew’s gaze shifts to the floor where he had tossed his jeans and underwear and both had kicked off their shoes. They didn’t even bother to get fully undressed before falling into bed.

“We should go down to the beach before practice,” Fletcher suggests, breaking the silence. “You’re pale and look like shit on stage.”

“Sure,” Andrew says. The idea of Fletcher sneering at everything between seagulls and the Florida sun will be worth it for the mile through the sand that he knows Fletcher is going to make him run.

“Oh, and for the record,” Andrew adds, and Fletcher looks his over shoulder at him, “I was right. You do need to learn some patience.”

Fletcher tells him to _fuck off_ , but he doesn’t say he’s wrong.

That is, until next week when they’re on a plane to Reno, reading the article that Michelle the interviewer (he was _way_ off on her name) wrote. Reading over Fletcher’s shoulder, Andrew sees that his comment about Fletcher’s impatience is the final line in the write-up, and laughs.

Fletcher throws the magazine at him. Andrew considers aggravating him further, but he had initiated Andrew as a member of the mile-high club earlier in the flight, so he knowingly smiles and lets it pass.

(There was no mention of their under the table  _activities_ in the article — either they had been discreet as Andrew had hoped, or they had scarred her.)

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated :)


End file.
